


Broken Record

by naughtyspirit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Topping, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:50:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtyspirit/pseuds/naughtyspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock might be bored between cases, but John's going out of his mind with need, trying to deal with the temptation of his flatmate. He needs to get a grip on this before he does something mad, like declare he isn't entirely straight after all.</p><p>Smut, just smut and a naked John.</p><p>~</p><p>Sherlock can only wait and it's not good for the flat, not good for Mrs Hudson and very much not good for the world when it happens.</p><p>It's worst of all for John though, because John's mind has started to go into overdrive. He wants to explain that while he still doesn't think he's gay, he's unable to look at Sherlock lately without wanting to strip him nude and draw his tongue down the full length of his spine.</p><p>~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day Six

**Author's Note:**

> Echo has wonderfully translated this into Chinese. It's here and I'm so SO grateful!
> 
> http://www.mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=95151

John wants Sherlock not to be bored.

It's been two months since John made the decision abut the Adler woman and handed over the phone. He hasn't asked about it since then and Sherlock isn't talking. He's talking in general, the world's authority on bloody everything, but not about that and John has tried very hard to bury down the truth Mycroft offered him; the one woman in the world that Sherlock Holmes had feelings for is dead. Better that Sherlock believes she's alive and untouchable than face that hideous reality. John isn't at all sure that he's that good a liar, but it seems he's good enough and since her departure, they've entertained a half dozen clients and Sherlock's mind has been busy.

John is doing his best to ensure that each client who walks through the door is at least worthy of some consideration and he's become a near expert in what will interest Sherlock. His mind, long capable of processing multiple tasks at once, has become something close to genius at scrutinising potential clients. Sherlock's raised an eyebrow once or twice when John's issued a polite refusal of entry at the door, but he's said nothing and their life has continued in as it did before, moments of madness supported by hours of outright insanity.

In the long stretches of night when he sleeps alone, John had wondered if he's simply Sherlock's enabler, fulfilling the role of caretaker so that Sherlock can get on and do the things that he needs to do. It would be so easy to do that, given that John could get a job looking at bunions and listening to people who just want someone to pay attention. But unfortunately for John, he does more than buy the milk in. He conducts light, apparently. He also concentrates and he learns and although it will never be instinctive, he can do what Sherlock does and he's eminently more adaptable, becoming whatever is needed when necessary. It's what made him a good soldier and an excellent doctor.

This is becoming a problem.

This past week has been quieter than usual and after refusing two individuals who only wanted to meet the great detective, John's considered finding someone off the street just to let Sherlock show off a bit. He's still not smoking, but he is growing increasingly tense and the bits and pieces of whoever Molly has lent him are currently decomposing badly under stretched laboratory conditions. Sherlock can only wait and it's not good for the flat, not good for Mrs Hudson and very much not good for the world when it happens.

It's worst of all for John though, because John's mind has started to go into overdrive. He wants to explain that while he still doesn't think he's gay, he's unable to look at Sherlock lately without wanting to strip him nude and draw his tongue down the full length of his spine. He wants to bend Sherlock over the back of his stupid chair and bury his nose against the back of Sherlock's neck, just to scent him. He wants to press him back against the wall with his wrists trapped against the wallpaper as John learns the taste of his mouth. John's caught himself drooling on a couple of occasions in the last week and it seems that the while everyone worries about Sherlock getting bored, no one notices that his blogger finds him utterly irresistible when at the end of his tether.

No one is looking at John going quietly insane when Sherlock's got a gun in his hand. Mrs Hudson doesn't come charging up the stairs when John stands with his back against the bedroom door wanking furiously as Sherlock yells out again that things are dull. She doesn't start complaining about what happens to the bathroom wall because come cleans away and bullets permanently damage. But John is going out of his mind, needing to do something to fix this before he's caught, cock in hand as Sherlock throwing a monumental tantrum.

When Sherlock's on a case, he's fixated, his mind spiking at key points and John can talk to him. Hell, they spend half their time giggling over something stupid someone else has done. They're a team when they work and yes, Sherlock might provide the genius but John isn't without skill and he gets the job done. He's on the case when they're working and when he looks at Sherlock he can admire him, can even admit to thinking him beautiful and attractive and someone that John could see himself having sex with, but the desire is manageable.

He doesn't stand behind Sherlock's bedroom door when they're working, he's too exhausted from whatever rooftop chases they've undergone. But when it's quiet, John's finding the temptation harder to resist each time and he has pressed himself against the wood twice now, his entire body slick with sweat as he wills the door to allow him to pass through. He has closed his eyes, listening to the man rant in his bedroom, to the complaints and he can visualise it, every last movement of the abnormally graceful idiot he shares his life with.

Tonight is day six without a case. He was hopeful today that the client who walked up the stairs would be able to provide a distraction. He actually went into the kitchen to make tea but before the kettle boiled he heard the loud clatter on the steps and the door slam. A walk back into the front room revealed Sherlock, lounging in his chair, a decided pout on his lips and the bow in his hand. John cleared his throat and leant against the back of his own chair.

"Not a client?"

Sherlock said nothing, just lolled his head in John's direction and exuded displeasure at him. His forehead was wrinkled and his fingertips almost twirled the bow like a baton and John really wished he had a little more cover from there back to the kitchen again. Sherlock tapped the baton against his lips and then dropped it at the side of his chair. He didn't say 'dull'. He didn't need to say it, it was in every last aspect of his body language here and he stretched out, heels dug in against the carpet and pajamas clinging to his skin. His t-shirt was a little damp from the heat and the rumpled fabric round his groin was peaked, not because he's aroused but because Sherlock just can't ever be bothered.

John didn't think that any of that was at all fair and turned on his heel. Tea may not solve the world's ills, but it's the only distraction he could find when Sherlock was busy being so annoyingly desirable. He left the cup with his flatmate and spent the rest of the day alternately hunting for a new case and spending time in the bathroom with the taps running and his trousers pushed down to his thighs.

It's a relief when the evening comes and John can get out of the flat to find something for them to eat. He brings back take out, aware that he can't concentrate on cooking when his hands tremble with the urge to touch. The little boxes are unwrapped and eaten, Sherlock's sulk dictating that very little is said over dinner, most of it about the television shows that don't bear watching. John's grateful when he can wash up, pack everything away and make his excuses to go to bed. Sherlock never pays anyone that much attention and when John can finally close the door on the rest of the flat, he feels like he's managed to get through another day without attacking his flatmate and ravaging his body.

So he lies back in bed, eyes wide open and covers pushed to his feet, thinking only of the man below him and the urges that ripple through his body. One hand easily slides over the hard length that insistently pushes against his belly and John doesn't have to see him to know that the mad bastard has flounced to bed, throwing himself back against the covers to accuse the world of not being interesting enough to hold his attention. He knows, but doesn't see that Sherlock refuses to strip bare to sleep, even in this heat and he can visualise taking a knife to the fabric, tearing it open and rubbing, insinuating himself against the man so he can get some blessed relief.

His hand slides round the base and draws his fingers over the slippery skin as he pictures the scene. His palm, familiar and slick with sweat, eases over his skin and he moves hard, drawing foreskin and shaft together. He can bring himself to climax in under three minutes this way, but it doesn't feel as though he's going to last that long, not when all he can think about is the way Sherlock's skin would feel against his own. He wants to feel the sleek sheen of his chest pushed up against his and his hand clenches tighter, the rhythm increasing as he imagines the arch beneath him and the slipperiness of skin against skin.

A small groan slips from his lips as he arches his hips on the bed. Because now he can imagine the voice that slides alongside the skin, breathy moans in his ear and the press of one elegant hand covering his own. In these final moments he can feel it and John can't breathe, can't do anything but surrender to the climax he's working toward. His eyes are tightly closed and he's sweating hard, the light from the gap in the curtains casting a silvery glow across his body. It feels like every last hair is standing on end as he hits the arc of his own heat and he gasps, eyes opening fast as he spills, slick liquid on his hand and belly, warm to the touch and the release will only ever be brief.

It's in this moment that John realises he's not alone in the room. Too stunned to do anything to cover himself, he can do nothing but seek out the eyes currently hidden in the darkness. His tongue flicks against his bottom lip before he can confirm that yes, Sherlock is here, yes, Sherlock just watched him come and he didn't say a damn word.

"Get out," he snaps and Sherlock doesn't move an inch. "Get out of my room."

"Stop wanking over me," says Sherlock, immovable and still watching the prone man in the bed.

"I'm not," says John, far too quickly. "It's my bloody room! Get the hell out of here, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sinks against the door frame, considering and John sees the man's tongue make a full circle of his cheek before he opens his mouth again. It's a step too far and John's cock hasn't heard that the night's actions are over and gives an involuntary pulse. The movement catches Sherlock's eye and John doesn't miss that either. His cock, apparently not involved in the anger and embarrassment that's dawning on its owner, gives another twitch and that's just too much all the way round.

John snatches his shirt and holds it against his groin as he gets up out of bed and stomps to the door. Sherlock doesn't take a single step back and stares evenly as the man approaches.

"This is more than an invasion of privacy, Sherlock. You get that, you bastard? Now get the hell out of my room!"

Sherlock appears to have heard none of this and instead of backing up and out like any normal person would do, he reaches out and strokes his fingers over the soft skin at John's shoulder. John reaches up, ostensibly to bat away the hand but Sherlock slides his fingers higher, brushing against his jaw and he finds it impossible to do anything but allow what is apparently a caress. He tilts his head, leaning into Sherlock's touch, the gelatinous mess at his belly still covered by his t-shirt. It's this realisation that makes him step back, caught out and still being watched by his flatmate.

"You should go," he says quietly and Sherlock licks over his bottom lip. "I don't bother you."

"No, you don't," says Sherlock and draws his hand back. "But you should. Next time, John, open the door and walk in."

"I don't-"

"If you're going to wank about fucking me, you should really gather more data," says Sherlock and reaches for the doorframe. "When you're ready, do come inside. It should be entirely distracting."

He steps into the darkness of the stairwell and John stares out after him, blinking in the darkness as he hears footfalls on the stairs. He realises that he's alone again and closes the door, unsure he can make more than the few footsteps to the bed before he collapses. And though he's absolutely certain that his cheeks are red from embarrassment, he doesn't know what to make about tonight at all. The invite sounded genuine but it's late and it's dark and he's just come hard enough to make his ears ring.

He doesn't want to be this attracted, but it's hard and God knows, he gets hard. He needs some control back and all he can hope is that tomorrow things will be better and that they'll be working again. And that in the cooler recesses of the night he won't have to think about fucking Sherlock Holmes. He swipes himself clean and closes his eyes, determined to sleep through. And though restless, John does see the sun come up without giving in to the temptation to walk toward his flatmate's bedroom.

He allows himself a smile as he gets up for breakfast, determined to deny all knowledge of the night before. This could be okay. This could all be fine and a good case will make it all better and make this heat die down to a manageable level again.

Except, they have no clients on day seven either.


	2. Day Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They still haven't got a case and John's senses are on overload, trying to deal with wanting Sherlock.
> 
> ~
> 
> There is no case right now and therefore nothing to distract John from looking at Sherlock and wanting. There's nothing to stop John watching him and imagining what he could do to the lanky frame that drapes itself over the sofa and the chair and dammit, the bed. John's hands clench on the rail as he allows himself to remember the expression on Sherlock's face the night before. He didn't look disgusted or offended, that much he realised at the time. But it's only now that John realises that the man didn't look clinically curious either and he catches his breath as he processes that Sherlock wasn't proposing an experiment.
> 
> ~

Breakfast is a tricky event. John knows it was unlikely to be anything else, given that last night Sherlock had caught him mid-wank and that worse still, he knew exactly what John was thinking about while he did it. The offer to shag him is not just at the front of his mind, but appears to be a blaring siren, a problematic issue that compounds the knowledge that John's problem is no longer just in his own head. Sherlock knows. He isn't quiet about it in the slightest.

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about, John."

"Shut up."

"It's perfectly understandable."

"Shut the fuck up."

"I just don't see-"

John stands up and walks away from the table. He leaves his tea going cold and refuses to think about the potential in completing this conversation. He gathers his clothes up and heads into the bathroom and when Sherlock starts talking to him from behind the door, he turns the water on as high as he can to drown out that insistent, irresistible baritone and the worrying questions it delivers. Even when he's washed and dressed, Sherlock hasn't come close to the end of his conversation and John can't take it any more.

He throws open the door, expecting to find Sherlock leaning against it. But Sherlock's slouched against the wall behind, ankles crossed lazily and phone in hand. He doesn't even seem to be concentrating on John right now, though the words that spill from his lips still refer to last night. John glares at him before he pushes past and picks up his wallet from the table. He doesn't say goodbye and doesn't look back, sure that a long walk and some time away from the madman will allow him to get his head together.

He heads down by the docks, hands gripping at the rail when he catches sight of some other tall, dark haired idiot. Not Sherlock, very clearly not Sherlock and that is a trench the man's wearing, not the coat that John knows the feel of. Not the coat that John has pressed his nose against, just to smell. It's not even close when the man walks past, but it was enough from a distance for John's cock to perk up and remind him that John wants Sherlock badly enough right now that he can't stand to be in the flat with him. The man's boredom is driving John to distraction and all he can believe is that if Sherlock would just shut up for five minutes, John could get his head together and get some serious control over his body.

Only John's been out of the flat for two hours and he can't shake Sherlock from his head, never mind his rebellious penis. He hasn't heard Sherlock and he's deliberately avoided reading any of the texts that have made his phone vibrate, (and caused yet another issue where he's left it in his left trouser pocket) and still he can't stop thinking about him. He has a life, he's worked hard to ensure not all things are Sherlock. He sees other people and when they work, it's all fine and John has a handle on things. John is in control and those 'not entirely straight' feeling can be filed away, put to one side so that he can focus on supporting Sherlock and getting the job done.

There is no case right now and therefore nothing to distract John from looking at Sherlock and wanting. There's nothing to stop John watching him and imagining what he could do to the lanky frame that drapes itself over the sofa and the chair and dammit, the bed. John's hands clench on the rail as he allows himself to remember the expression on Sherlock's face the night before. He didn't look disgusted or offended, that much he realised at the time. But it's only now that John realises that the man didn't look clinically curious either and he catches his breath as he processes that Sherlock wasn't proposing an experiment.

It was an offer, and it's only now that John realises that it was genuine. Sherlock Holmes suggested that John breach his bedroom and gather more data. Fuck him, in other words. John closes his eyes and tries to keep some semblance of calm as he processes _that_ and finds it's harder than usual. Seven days without a case and Sherlock is climbing the walls, talking non-stop and playing the violin at him. He's hidden the gun but it won't stop Sherlock blowing the place up if he chooses and John just wants. He wants to take Sherlock in his arms and kiss him until Sherlock forgets, however briefly, how to talk.

The air at the docks isn't doing the job. John shoves his hands in his pockets and walks back home, collar up against the breeze and mentally recites the symptoms for Lassa fever. It seems to be working until he realises that he's reciting them with Sherlock's voice and his cock throbs sympathetically at the revelation. 

_The Gastrointestinal tract, John, will be affected and the patient will display signs of nausea, dysphagia and intestinal discomfort. Are you listening, John? Do you know what you're looking for? Why don't you just admit what you want?_

He growls, making Mrs Hudson jump as he walks through the front door and he can barely summon up an apology. His head is elsewhere and he leans in and kisses her cheek, unable to trust himself to speak without blurting out that he would be nicer, he really would, but he's entirely focussed on not fucking Sherlock and it's all he can manage right now.

He hopes fervently that Sherlock has gone out, but he hears the beatific sounds of the violin as Sherlock composes something that's going to stay with John forever. Everything stays with John, filed away and perhaps ignored, but remembered and especially bright if it's related to Sherlock. Still, at least the man's not talking and John enters the flat, hopeful that his friend has taken the hint and won't mention it again. Sherlock doesn't look up and John is grateful. He flips open the laptop to check for any kind of case and a quick scan reveals nothing more than a casual enquiry on rates.

He settles back in the chair, attempting to relax and opens his blog instead. If he can write something, he can focus on that, but the blank page doesn't get any more filled as Sherlock's music insinuates itself in his head. It reverberates through his brain and when John allows himself to look up, he is entirely lost. And though all he can see is the edge of Sherlock's profile, the lines clean and fleshy where the violin is tucked under the man's chin. His arm is raised to draw the bow across and John swallows hard and this is want. This is need and he can't stop himself at all.

John is desperate and he wants to walk over and lay hands on Sherlock's body. He wants to sink his hands beneath the dressing gown and oh, oh! This is new. He wants to stand behind him and let Sherlock keep playing, assured that there won't be a break in the music he creates as John slides his fingers down over his belly and finds bare flesh. John stares at the back of Sherlock's head as he pictures slipping his hand beneath the waistband of his pajamas. He's seen Sherlock stripped down before, not specifics but glimpses and he knows that the downy hair feathers out over his lower belly, dark against the pale skin and John can't stand up anymore because the feeling has dropped away from his legs.

All his blood is focussed in his groin and his cock feels solid and full and near painful because he hasn't touched it. He refuses to indulge right here but he stares at Sherlock all the same because Sherlock isn't watching. His gaze could bore flames into Sherlock's skin, it has damned weight, but he is focussed and his hand clenches where it rests against the laptop, fingers flexing as he pictures sliding his hand against the length that currently lies relaxed against Sherlock's skin, soft and vulnerable.

His fingers close tighter and he has to force himself to unclench, to release and it's only as he realises that the music has stopped that he can bring himself back to the present again. The real and the now and Sherlock has turned his head slightly. John's caught again and hasn't done more than think and it occurs to John that Sherlock really must be able to read his mind. He doesn't need to stand in the dark and watch John wank himself stupid. He knows and he's aware and John can't do anything about that.

"I'm going to take a shower," he says as he gets to his feet and Sherlock doesn't say anything. John doesn't know if this is a good thing or not but he has to move fast before Sherlock recovers his voice and says _something_ about his flatmate's obsession. John doesn't run toward the bathroom, but his feet beat time over the floor and when he's got the lock turned he shoves his pants down hard. He drops his head back against the door but his hand hovers above his cock. He daren't grasp, aware that if he does this, Sherlock knows and he will talk. He will not avoid what should be an awkward conversation and John will have to address it with the smell of his own come in the room.

He stands for a full minute before he squeezes his eyes tight and makes the decision. He yanks his pants up again over his straining cock and slams a hand against the tiled wall. He is better than this, he has to be more in control than this and he catches his reflection in the half closed cupboard above the sink. He looks wild, his short hair ruffled and the colour high in his cheeks. He's seen the expression before, but always just before he stepped into battle and that was definitely handling a different kind of weapon.

All he has to do is walk back outside and face up to Sherlock. Not to admit openly to this heat but to deal with what they do when there isn't a case. He can't hear the violin anymore and when he steps back into the living room he's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed that Sherlock's gone. No sign of him here and the violin is back in its case. The room feels empty and the relief John feels is palpable. Perhaps he's gone out and perhaps there's a case and John groans, hopeful that this means life will revert to normal.

All of which means that he can head back up the stairs and deal with the straining erection before Sherlock texts him and he can join him however he needs him on the case. He's actually grinning as he heads up the stairs, jeans undone again and one hand already in his briefs as he reaches for his bedroom door. It's only as it pushes forward freely that he remembers he closed it this morning. Closed it and locked it and now it's open and Mrs Hudson hasn't been here.

He looks round, almost sure he'll see Sherlock in here, but the room's empty and John doesn't quite get it. Not until he sees that his bed has been made neatly but that there's a definite rumpling in the middle. Someone has lad down here. Someone has laid down in the middle of John's bed and when he inhales he catches the scent of it. Semen and heat and in his room and not his own. He stares at the bed, certain he'll see something, see anything, but there's nothing but John's imagination working hard.

Sherlock's been here. Sherlock's taken himself in hand here, lying in John's bed, knowing that John will come upstairs and see and God knows, observe and this time he will make the correct deduction. John sinks back against the door, his minds' eye certain that the skin on Sherlock's cock is sleek and soft, silk over steel and that Sherlock stripped himself bare to lie here. Nude skin on John's bed and he can't help leaning over, pressing his mouth against the sheets as he tries to pick up the scent of his sweat.

His phone vibrates again and he reaches for it, needing to get the pressure away from his cock. He draws his thumb over the lock to open it. The message glows across the screen and he reads it twice before he can be certain he isn't imagining it.

_John, this is tiresome. Come home. SH_

_If you don't come home, I'm going to have a wank in your bed. SH_

_Too late. SH_

_I can still smell you here. SH_

_My bedroom, tonight. Just come, John. SH_

John groans, sinks down against the floor and drops the phone. His hands strain against the sheets and he can't quite breathe because Sherlock still talks to him, even when he doesn't want to listen. And when it's not a case it's all John. All John, all the time and he doesn't think he can cope.

He reaches, unsteady hand grasping the phone and sends a text. It's the only thing he can say and he's not surprised at the instant response.

_I don't sleep with men. JW_

_I didn't ask you to sleep with men. Pay attention, John. SH_

He is well and truly fucked. Or going to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WIP that is clearly eating up my brain with how much I want to get to the naughty stuff and am being deliberately torturous about. Thank you for the kudos - it means a lot!


	3. Day Seven: Night Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's called a summit on John's clear desire for his flatmate. John, wary and greedy, is prepared to listen if not necessarily give in.
> 
> ~

John's hand doesn't tremble when he reaches for Sherlock's door. His left does clench at his side, but he's not about to back away from a challenge made. Bravery might very well be a kinder word for stupidity, but it's   served him well so far and if he's going in here unarmed, he needs every advantage he can get. He doesn't knock - they are so far past knocking John's not going there. But he does hesitate for a second, gathering strength before he turns the handle and walks inside.

He isn't quite sure what he expects to see on the inside. It could be fucking Narnia for all he's considered this evening. The room itself is sparsely decorated and hasn't been turned into a dungeon. If anything, the bed sheets have been turned down and look especially crisp and clean. The lights are on but low and John registers at the back of his head that as a seduction technique, it's not bad at all.

Part of him expected to find Sherlock spread out naked on the bed, oiled up and ready like some Roman emperor. He thought there might be oil and maybe some slightly terrifying toy or two lingering on the bedspread just to put him off his game even further. He thought there might be a camera set up and facing the bed, no doubt for posterity and in his wilder imaginings, to have Sherlock point out errors in technique and angle complete with the pause button on the dvd.

He didn't quite expect Sherlock to be fully dressed, nor the glass of wine to be handed to him as he stepped into the bedroom. He doesn't close the door behind him and although he accepts the glass, some deeper instinct kicks in and he looks over the top at his flatmate.

"Did you put something in this?"

"It's from Tesco, John. It's just a Chablis."

John nods and lifts the glass, pausing again as he looks down. "No drugs? Nothing...from your experiments?"

"Oh for Gods sake," says Sherlock and swaps glasses, drinking from John's and his own before he raises his eyebrows. "Nothing. Just wine. I thought you'd appreciate the gesture."

"Hmm," says John and drinks. It's better than the stuff John usually buys and it reminds him that he hasn't had much to eat today; he's too anxious to let anything settle in his belly. "Not bad."

"Indeed," says Sherlock and drinks his own before he gestures to the chair in the corner. "Take a seat."

John glances at the chair and assesses how quickly he can get out of the room. Two seconds, unless he has to actually push Sherlock out of the way and John settles down on the seat, bum perched on the edge of the chair as he keeps tight hold of his glass. He's more disturbed to see Sherlock fully dressed and it occurs to him that the man's discarded his pajamas and dressing gown for the evening, apparently keyed up for the sex that's still so clearly on the table.

"I'm not going to pounce on you," says Sherlock and catches John's expression. "Unless that's what you want."

"No, God, no," says John and straightens up, his chin lifted as he stares at Sherlock, determined to get this bit out. "I'm only here because we really need to talk and I just want this out the way so we can get back to normal."

"You mean where you're not spending every other minute wanking over what you want to do to me."

"Yes, that," huffs John and drums his free hand over his knee. "I don't want this."

"This being you and I in the room together?" asks Sherlock. "We've shared rooms together. We've shared a bed together on occasion."

"Yes, thank you for pointing out the obvious. But that was only when we didn't have any other choice and I put pillows down the centre of the bed," says John and frowns. "It wasn't shagging, so don't try and pretend it was."

"I'm not the one pretending anything," says Sherlock firmly and sits on the edge of his bed. "I'm not the one locking myself in the bathroom instead of asking for what I want."

"I don't want this. I don't want any part of this," says John and takes a deep breath. "It's just that we haven't got a case and I get...tense when there isn't one."

" **I** get tense. You get hard."

"Oh you're just fucking precious, aren't you?" asks John, empties and sets the glass down so he can settle both hands on his knees. "Look, I know I have an issue but I'm dealing with it and what you did last night was just way out of order."

"You were moaning," points out Sherlock. "I wanted to make sure you weren't having a nightmare."

"I'm having one now," says John a little too loudly and struggles to get a handle on this. "We're not like this normally and as soon as we have a case-"

"Yes, I'm well aware that as soon as we have a case you'll start denying you have any of these feelings at all and you'll start telling everyone how very straight you are."

"No."

"And as soon as the clients dry up, you'll be back to fondling yourself while I play violin and lying to me about what you want to do." Sherlock shakes his head. "It's not healthy, John."

"Not healthy?" asks John and stares back. "You shoot the wall."

"Yes, well you masturbate into your palms when I shoot the wall. It's a waste either way when we could be fucking each others brains out."

John stares at him for ten seconds before he stands up. "I'm not doing this."

He heads for the door, but Sherlock steps in his way and John can't get round him without physically pushing Sherlock out of the way. He doesn't dare touch him, not when his skin feels like it's tingling and this close up he can smell the fresh sweat on Sherlock's skin, the scent of his cologne, the toothpaste he's clearly used and the wine he's swallowed. He's not broad but he is solid when he's this close and though John's used to Sherlock invading his personal space as it pleases him, he isn't prepared for how hot he feels, just standing in front of him.

"Let me out."

"Make me," says Sherlock and smirks a little as John looks back at him, anger clearly rising. "Just make me move."

"Don't do this, you dick," says John and lifts his hands. He could just touch right now, just lay his hands on and move Sherlock out of the way. Four short steps and he can be out of this room and there'll be a case soon enough. He can stop this insanity then. He can stop thinking about Sherlock sulking and his cock will behave again. He'll have control over his own libido and he won't get caught in small rooms practically pressed up against his flatmate.

His hand curls into a fist at his side and the temptation to swing is very high indeed. "I'm not gay."

"Of course you're not," says Sherlock. "Does that help? Do you want to keep saying it even when you're balls deep inside me?"

John's nostrils flare and he clears his throat. "You're a fucking bastard."

"Quite possibly," says Sherlock and leans in, his fingers pressed to John's wrist and his mouth close to his ear. "But I could be the bastard you're fucking. All you have to do is take what you want."

John can't seem to find the air in the room. A hot puff of breath against his ear and cool fingertips against his skin and his cock is harder than nails. It feels like he might actually hurt himself if he bent forward at all and his sac has drawn up tight enough to throb. His balls feel heavy and the urge to lean in, to rub against the lean body available for the taking almost breaks him. John thinks he's going to have to regard 'want' to 'need' and he's never been quite so scared. Taking a bullet was less nerve-wracking and he has to concentrate to take another deep breath.

He draws his hand free of Sherlock's fingers and moves to press it against the man's chest. He can feel the steady thump of Sherlock's heart beneath the thin shirt and he wonders whether the heating is on in here, because John is sweating hard. His own t-shirt is sticking to him and for a second he considers giving in, embracing everything that's on offer and to hell with the consequences.

And what frightens him most is that John will probably find that Sherlock is everything he's looking for in a lover, even if the obvious female attributes are missing. He isn't about to phone home and explain that he and Harry finally have something in common and he can't quite imagine adding 'gay' to his mental self image. But 'straight' is no longer correct either and while John can adapt that in without losing any sense of his own masculinity, he can't get past the idea that Sherlock will fuck him and then that will be the end of all of this.

He'll be left hanging and he finds that what's worse than being having a near permanent hard on is knowing that it's not of interest to the object of his desire. Because it dawns on John that all of this, the clothes, the low lights, the wine and even the man's goddamn voice, all of it indicates that Sherlock isn't the one going insane right now. John's busy fulfilling that particular role in their relationship and Sherlock has broken off his own insanity to experiment on John's own.

Sherlock wants him now, because it's interesting to him and the knowledge gives John the strength to reach up and shove the man away hard. Sherlock doesn't quite stumble but he does step back, mild surprise on his face. "I'm not your fucking toy," snaps John and walks to the door. "You can't just demand this when you haven't got anything else on."

He stomps out into the hall but he's surprised that Sherlock's right behind him. "John, you don't understand."

"No, you don't understand," says John and pauses, his shoulders dropping slightly. "You stand there, all poise and elegance and anger and everything I'm not and it turns me on. I can't help that. But letting you put me under the microscope is the stupidist thing I could do. So I'm not." He huffs. "I'm going to bed. Don't come up."

He reaches for the stair rail and he hears Sherlock say his name quietly behind him. Twice, as it happens and he turns his head at the insistence. Sherlock's standing in the hallway with the light from his room casting an ethereal halo round him. Not planned, this, not from the disappointment on his face. "You're wrong about this," he says.

"Oh great, Sherlock Holmes says I'm wrong. What a bloody surprise!"

"You're wrong about what I want," says Sherlock and takes a step toward the bottom of the stairs, one below John and the height difference equalled. "It's not about an experiment, John."

"Right, it's just that I'm so hot, you can't help yourself."

"No, I'm desirable and you can't help yourself," says Sherlock. He licks over his bottom lip. "But I want you."

"Because you're bored."

"Because I want you," says Sherlock and almost smiles as he gets closer, his toes brushing the riser. "You think I have no idea what it is to want something, to be subject to desire, but you're wrong. You walk about, all broad shouldered and wicked smile and think it does nothing to me?" His tongue touches the exact centre of his upper lip and withdraws. "I've always enjoyed the appreciation you've given my brain, but to know you're losing control? That John Watson, sold, dependable John Watson is being driven mad with desire does affect me."

John frowns. "I didn't say mad."

"I did," says Sherlock. "You're hard right now, even when you're refusing me again. I felt it. I felt you and we both know you're going to head up the stairs, strip off and lie back on your bed. You're going to slick your hand up, fist your cock and you'll come thinking about what you could do with me instead of staying down here and doing it with me." He steps back slightly, eyes still meeting John's. "All of that data and you think I'm unaffected."

John stares at him and his hand reaches out of its own accord and brushes against the line of Sherlock's jaw. He can feel the firm line of bone beneath, the rough feel where he'll need to shave again soon and the warmth of Sherlock's skin. The detective stands there and lets him do it and John thinks that he's never needed him more.

He leans in closer, licking over his bottom lip before he finds Sherlock's mouth. John draws his tongue slowly over Sherlock's bottom lip before he sucks slowly, tasting the man's mouth before Sherlock can respond. John closes his eyes and sucks at the full lips moving against his own and the push of Sherlock's tongue between his teeth makes his erection throb harder, slick and wet at the tip and dampening his jeans. He curls his hand harder against Sherlock's jaw and opens his mouth, offering up his own kiss as his would-be lover takes a taste of his own.

And as he feels his hips buck hard, John knows how damn easy it would be to do this now. How he could be swayed absolutely and head into Sherlock's room to drown this heat and do something about this madness. But he's evidently malevolent and he draws back, hand sliding down from jaw to collar bone as he looks at the new and delicious expression on Sherlock's face. It's not fear and it's not curiosity but genuine need etched across fine cheekbones and the devil's own eyes.

"I want to fuck you," he says clearly and Sherlock appears to be doing a little woolgathering of his own. Surely it can't be that John has stopped him thinking, however temporarily.

"Come to bed."

"No," says John and grins slowly as takes a step back up the stairs. "Not tonight."

"When?"

John could giggle at the need he hears and he feels as though the possibility of control is almost within grasp. "When we have a case," he says. "If you want me then. If I want _you_ then."

"We'll have no time then," says Sherlock and huffs out. "John, be practical."

"Fucking's not practical," says John firmly and nods. "If we both want it when there's a case on, I'll come fuck you."

"You're being unreasonable."

John can hear the sulk and in an inspired move he draws his t-shirt over his head and tosses it to Sherlock. The man catches it and scrunches it in his fingers. "Highly unreasonable."

"Oh shut up," says John and slides his free hand into his jeans to adjust his cock. "Right, I'm going to bed to have a wank and get some sleep." He nods to the t-shirt. "You can use that if you like."

He turns on his heel, feeling a little more smug than he imagined. His lips are tingling from the kiss and he feels like he may actually wake up with some semblance of control of himself. The smug feeling stops slightly when he's hit in the back of the head by Sherlock's shirt.

"Use it," says Sherlock. "I want your scent in it."

"Fine," says John. "I'm not sleeping with you tomorrow either."

Sherlock grins and presses John's t-shirt against his nose. "We might have a case then," he says and turns on his heel, exiting the hallway and leaving his door deliberately open. John doesn't understand until he hears the noises of his flatmate making good use of his t-shirt and with a flourish he bounds up the last steps and into his own room. He drops back against the bed, naked as predicted and as he takes himself in hand, John hears the exaggerated groan from the room below.

Whatever happens, the next client through the door is going to be interviewed rather more rigorously than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've all been so very kind. I'm really enjoying writing it but the comments and kudos absolutely make writing better still.


	4. Day Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, the boys have a case and John is expecting his desire for Sherlock to wane with it.
> 
> Silly, silly man.
> 
> ~

The case is a seven.

John spends the first few hours trawling through the paper for references to break-ins in Putney, only for Sherlock to point out that the killer is unlikely to have been interested in anything that far west. He spends much of the rest of the day wandering round after Sherlock, listening but not understanding the leaps the man makes as he closes in on the perpetrator. He has noted down every last thing Sherlock's said and he can sort of see the pattern, but the intuitive jumps are not there for John and he turns instead to Lestrade to ask questions so that he can come out the other end in one piece.

A possible serial killer seems to amuse Sherlock no end and he's close to giddy when Lestrade reports another suspect in the case. John's relegated to investigation and support, paving the way for Sherlock to question each and every related person to get what he wants. It's business as usual, in other words and John has other people to talk to again. The solitude has been pushed away and the atmosphere in 221b should have calmed some, given that exciting developments are afoot.

One of the people he encounters on the day is a pretty receptionist who blinks away her surprise at Sherlock's questioning. She doesn't deserve to be called incompetent, even if it isn't directly and in smoothing away the discomfort of Sherlock's presence, John ends up with those pretty blue eyes fluttering at him and a phone number sent to his mobile. He is back in form, back on top of things and he offers her the patented grin as he leaves the office, the twinkle in his eyes promising more than just a good dinner and drinks.

He's back in control again and, much as he suspected, the insanity that coated the past week seems to have slipped away and he's back in a position where punching Sherlock in the face seems the likelier option. He allows himself a congratulatory sigh of relief. He's still a good man and he didn't give in. Quite correctly,  as Sherlock is once again distracted by the case and John isn't a walking hard on any more. The job has given them both the equilibrium they require and the world can happily spin on.

And with this very much at the forefront of his mind, John stops off at the Chinese to pick up take out, selecting enough for both of them, even if Sherlock won't trouble himself with digesting just yet. He swings the bag lightly as he heads back up the steps and even pauses to kiss Mrs Hudson on the cheek before he reaches for their front door. This is how things should be all the time and John's already planning to bring in more potential clients so that they avoid the messy space between them.

His lips are ready to frame Sherlock's name when his voice fails him completely. The front room has been rearranged, chairs and sofa pushed back to create a space on the floor. A replica of the building the murder took place in has been created in the middle of this and a number of stick figures have been placed round the cardboard creation ripped from John's cereal boxes. This, John could cope with very well. It seems to be an entirely logical step for his flatmate to take and will no doubt lead to the discovery and conviction of the killer still at large.

It should be normal and he should be relatively pleased, but Sherlock is currently on his hands and knees, moving the pieces around and his trousers are obscenely tight against his ass. His very round ass, despite his narrow frame and John can't quite find the balance he's been clinging desperately to for the day so far. Sherlock's shirt has pulled free of the waistband of his pants on the left and John can see a narrow stripe of skin, smooth and pale and the hint of muscle beneath. It's such a small area of flesh but the urge to lick is back and John thinks that this is entirely unfair.

Within seconds John's gaze travels up over his back, tracing the shape of his spine to the shoulder blades that push against the clean lines of Sherlock's shirt. He can see the broad expanse of his shoulders and above his collar there's the lickable length of his neck before it's covered by dark curls. Sherlock's hand rises and scrubs back through his hair, rumpling it and sending curls wild and it's all John can do to groan instead of lunging forward.

Sherlock turns at the noise, his own question close to hand and a little stick figure in his fingers. "Ah, John," he says and gestures. "Did you speak to Caroline?"

"Karen," says John absently and clears his throat. "Yes, yes I did and she didn't see anyone."

"Some receptionist," says Sherlock and narrows his eyes at John's expression. "You're not thinking."

"Hmm? Yes, I am," says John and fumbles in his pocket to draw out his own notebook. "Yeah, I was paying attention. She said she didn't see anyone after five, just like you said."

Sherlock pauses, reassessing and John straightens as he realises that he's being analysed again. And it doesn't matter what else Sherlock picks up on here, he can hear his own raised pulse, knows his pupils have dilated, his palms are sweaty and more obvious still, his pants are feeling ridiculously tight when they have no business being so. Worse, the longer Sherlock looks at him, the harder he's getting and the tendrils of hope that a case would cut off the attraction are being slashed away sharply.

"Look," he says before Sherlock can cut in with something that will make him blush. "It's fine. It's just been a long week and we're back at work now."

"Perhaps you'd like to inform your penis?" asks Sherlock and kneels up, resting back against his heels as he raises his gaze from John's groin. "Because it doesn't seem to have got the message."

"Don't start that again," says John and turns on his heel to dump out the take out on the table. He hauls bowls out of the cupboard and serves up, clanging the crockery as he tries to pick up on everything that will make him calm down. He might well be unable to control his attraction to Sherlock but it's very likely untrue the other way round. Sherlock doesn't eat, doesn't sleep when he's on a case; he's not going to make space in his inquiries to see to his hornier than thou flatmate.

He flips cutlery out and shovels a mouthful or two in, swallowing as he tries to work out how to handle this now. He was absolutely counting on work to damp down the heat between them. He was so sure it would work and allows himself the small luxury of recounting the past week. He's been hard for Sherlock before, but it always came back under control when they were working. The case is just as involving but, oh, there it is, the crux of this problem: they've acknowledged it now. They snogged on the stairs the night before and Sherlock knows how much John wanted him. More uncomfortably, last night John knew how much Sherlock wanted him and he loses his appetite at the obvious here. Sherlock is occupied again and won't even come close to wanting anything until the job is done.

He sighs and sets his fork down at the table, aware that his plan hasn't gone quite the way he intended. And though he's managed to pull today, he's going to have to seriously deal with the fact that his hitherto straight past is under threat. It only takes one man to make him admit that John Watson might be at least a little bit gay and he wonders if there's a card he should be handing in.

"It's fine, you know."

He looks up to see Sherlock lounging in the doorway. He's stretched an arm up against the wall and his focus is very much still on John. "I know it's fine," he says and gestures to the bowl across the table. "I got you some."

Sherlock nods and in an unprecedented move he joins John at the table and reaches for the bowl provided. He digs in and John can only stare. Sherlock swallows down a mouthful and glances back over at his flatmate. "I take it things have not changed as you expected."

"You could say that," says John and takes in what looks suspiciously like concern on Sherlock's face. He giggles and sets both hands flat on the table. "Okay, I give in. This is obviously bigger than both of us."

"Exaggeration is not necessary," says Sherlock with a wry grin. "Does this mean you're not going to fight it any more?"

"Am I going to shag you over the table?" asks John and nods his head slowly. "Well, I'll clean up first but, yeah, I think I probably am." He shrugs. "You have work to do."

"We both have work to do," says Sherlock. "There's a killer at large and we both know Lestrade's team won't catch him."

"Right, so we'd best get to it." He catches the raised eyebrow. "Catching him."

"Of course," says Sherlock and smirks slightly. "Glad you're still focussed on the important things."

"Shut up," says John and chuckles as he finishes off his dinner. "You haven't said."

"That I'm still attracted? I would have thought that was obvious, John."

John grins, unable to help himself. "So when the case is done?"

"That's not what you said."

"Yeah, well I also said I don't fuck men, but it seems that one might be going out of the window and I'd rather not be rushed."

Sherlock licks his bottom lip. "I'm to be subjected to your full attention? How generous."

"Right," says John and reaches for the discarded crockery. "So back to work."

"You're very civilised."

"Yeah, well if we're going to bed, it's on my terms and I'd rather not do it with a serial killer looking over my shoulder. Bad enough that you're going to criticise my technique. I don't want someone who wants to kill me butting in."

Sherlock laughs and John feels a little less shaky, if still worked up. The news that sex is possible but not imminent has not yet been understood by his cock and it's still standing proud, hard and heavy in his jeans. It feels like his balls are liquid lead and he stands with some difficulty, turning his back as he dumps everything in the sink. He'll help Sherlock with this and then they'll make some sort of plan and then, well, then they'll work out everything else and John will find out whether or not he's any good at seducing a man when he's near expert on women.

He expects the day to go on like that, but he's suddenly aware of the body behind his own, tall and hard against his back. The fingers are ridiculously deft when they slide over his belly. He can feel his jumper being lifted and there's a quick unfastening of his belt and an efficient tugging on the fastenings of his jeans.

"Let me help you with that."

"What?" he asks, but Sherlock's chin is on his shoulder and as he feels the hand slide into his briefs and take hold of the thickening length within, John feels winded and his belly rolls over. "Sherlock, Jesus."

Sherlock chuckles and John can feel the puff of hot breath against his cheek. He can't seem to react properly and he sets both hands against the work surface, gripping the marble with what feel like numb fingers. He can't breathe and has to be reminded to try, but all John's focus is on the fingers that are touching him intimately, one cupping and squeezing at the tight sac that's growing tighter still. The other is wrapped round the length of his cock, sliding up and over the foreskin over and over, drawing it down and back over again.

John groans and catches his breath short as the hand is drawn away entirely. He can't quite work out what's happening until he hears the slick pop at his cheek. Sherlock sucks his fingers, moistening them before he rewraps his hand round John's cock and the good doctor's knees threaten to give out. His arse pushes back against Sherlock and he's dimly aware that his flatmate is not unaffected either. His brain refuses to focus on anything but the touch of Sherlock's hand. His hips buck up as the now slicked fingers slide over the skin, easing slippery, movable flesh up and over the hard length of his cock until John knows there's nothing, not even a serial killer, that could stop him now.

"Oh God, Sherlock," he gasps and then he's coming, thick globs of liquid spurting over Sherlock's hand and hitting the work surface. He drops his head back and can feel the tension in Sherlock's cheeks as the man grins at having achieved apparently exactly what he wants. His tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth and he can't do much more than loll against the man who is clearly taking the role of lover whether John's ready to take that step or not.

The hands at his groin are cool and he recognises the sound of taps being turned on. He finds himself being cleaned up and cleaned off and a quick look reveals that Sherlock is fastidious at this as well. The man's a menace, especially if a quick and dirty hand job is to be believed and John tries to turn his head. Sherlock kisses his cheek, lips pressed close for a hearty smack before he steps away, hand-towel grasped to dry off his fingers. "I should think you have food for thought," he says and winks at John. "Let's get to work."

"Thanks," says John and blinks twice before he can look down at himself. His cock is neatly packed away again and behaving for the second and a quick check of Sherlock's groin reveals that the man is still worked up from the afternoon's events. John's eyes widen and he licks his bottom lip. "We could-"

"No, no, John, you were quite right. The case comes first." He grins at John and gestures. "I'll be putting my house together. Why don't you wash up and join me?"

"I'm not sure I can walk," says John and Sherlock smirks.

"I'm sure that comes later," he says firmly. "Wash up, John. Catch the killer first. You can thank me properly after that."

And with that Sherlock exits, leaving John staring blankly before he can get his brain in gear again. He feels worked up, sharper and a little lightheaded from being taken care of so thoroughly. As much as he wants to go running in and jumping the man, he feels as though Sherlock's got ahead again, leaving John on the back foot. Not that it's a bad thing, not when his belly is still rolling and his cock is sending messages that it's thoroughly pleased with another man's touch. But John has something to prove now and the plan to bring Sherlock to his knees forms almost complete as he grins.

He turns back to the sink, humming. Sherlock Holmes is a dead man and John will make him beg before the night is out.

Possible even twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've all been so very kind. I really am pleased that this has been so well received and I am honestly loving writing it. Thank you for the kudos, the kind comments and frankly just reading it. Pretty men, how lovely this is to write!


	5. Day Eight: Night Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following Sherlock's eloquent wrist action this afternoon, John's determined to make this sex on his terms.
> 
> Because he's clearly a very naughty and naked man.
> 
> ~

Lestrade is effusive when the killers are led away. He's grinning from ear to ear not only at the capture of these two men who've killed too many people already, but at knowing that the seven more they planned are now safe and sleeping in bed at night. "We done good," he says as he pats John on the shoulder and steps away from the building. "I'll sleep well tonight, how about you?"

John just grins. He's spent the past couple of hours getting hot and sweaty as they ran at Sherlock's pace across the steaming streets. His shirt's wrung through and his jeans are feeling both tight and sticky and what he really wants is a hot shower. However, sleep is very much not on John's menu tonight and he looks past Lestrade to where Sherlock is explaining in his 'deductions for dummies' tones exactly how the killers were caught this evening to press onsite. He licks over his bottom lip and forces himself to look back at Lestrade again.

"Yeah, it all went well." He pats him on the arm. "I'm off. His nibs'll find his own way home, when he's finished showing off."

"You sure?" asks Lestrade. "Join us for a pint?"

"I'll skip it," says John and catches sight of Sherlock huffing and pointing out errors in the woman's report. "Tell him to get his own cab, if he asks."

He walks away with a determined stride, lengthening his step so that he can put his own plans into action tonight. He slips the cabbie an extra tenner to get him home sharpish and he doesn't look out the back window to see if Sherlock's noticed he left. John might well be dealing with his desire for a man for the first time and his skin is still tingling from Sherlock's hand on him this afternoon, but John needs to a grip on this, ha ha. He wants to take the next step himself and make Sherlock deal with him on John's terms.

For that he needs to get the flat in shape. It might be after midnight but he's buzzing from everything he wants tonight. He walks into the flat, his wallet lighter and he locks the bathroom door behind him. For the first time in a week he's spared the desperate hard-on he's been tortured with. It's enough semblance of control for John to step into the shower and scrub himself down thoroughly. He rinses out his hair and makes sure every last crevice is clean. He smells vaguely of the sandalwood shower gel he's been using and the soft towel he dries himself with makes the downy hair on his legs and groin spring fluffy.

He drags the comb through his hair and checks his reflection carefully. Time is slipping away, but John is in the zone and he checks for spots and length of stubble before he decides that this will be good enough to achieve what he wants. The scar on his shoulder stands out against the freckles on his skin, but he rather thinks that Sherlock will appreciate it; the scar is one more puzzle to explore, though John's intentions are more carnal than that. He dries off his toes as he hears the footfalls on the stairs and with a final look at himself, the good doctor turns on his heel and walks out into the sitting room.

Sherlock's standing in the middle, confusion on his face as he draws the scarf free and unfastens his coat. He's clearly in a hurry himself, given that he often leaves both in the hallway, but it seems that John isn't the only one wondering how this evening will pan out. Sherlock turns toward the sound of John's heels making time over the floorboards and clutches the scarf in one elegant hand as the doctor walks in, naked and comfortable in his surroundings.

"Warm night," says John and reaches for Sherlock's scarf and coat. "Don't think you'll be needing these."

"No," drawls Sherlock and frowns slightly. "Does this happen a lot?"

"What?"

"Do you walk round the flat nude when I'm not here?"

"Sometimes," grins John. "But tonight I'm not alone, am I."

"Apparently not," says Sherlock and runs his tongue over his bottom lip, meeting John's smile. "I approve."

"Well that's all right then," says John and steps closer, his bare toes brushing against the shiny tips of Sherlock's shoes. "It's really warm in here tonight. Aren't you too hot in those clothes?"

"It is getting a little stifling," says Sherlock and looks down at John's fingers as they trace over his chest. "Is this your usual line of seduction?"

John shakes his head as his fingers work on unfastening Sherlock's shirt. "I've turned up naked a time or two, yeah." He pushes the open shirt open wider and slides his palms over the skin. Sherlock's skin is pleasantly warm and smooth and John's fascinated with the pulse at his throat. He runs his fingers over the tender skin but it's Sherlock who catches his breath.

John grins and leans in and up, his tongue stretched to lick at Sherlock's pulse. His skin is dry but tastes of salt and is underwritten by the soap John isn't allowed to use in the bathroom. He can't help but grin against his flesh and he presses his lips in, kissing the man as he pushes Sherlock's jacket off and onto the floor. He can feel the firmness of bicep beneath fabric and the tension as he draws his mouth over to Sherlock's collarbone. He licks, teeth pressing against the skin before he sucks and John's caught up in wanting to mark the man, to cause a bruise to blossom on Sherlock's flesh.

Sherlock moves slightly at the contact and John can feel the now familiar hands on his own naked sides. His erection has drawn up tight against his belly and the rough rub of Sherlock's trousers against John's skin is delicious. Beneath them he can feel an answering hardness and John is briefly amused at how easy it is to know if he's doing something right when you're with a man. He draws his mouth back and looks back up at his flatmate. "I figured _you'd_ know where to look."

"But there's so much," says Sherlock and slides his hands round to John's back. "I want to look at all of you."

John can't quite help preening but he draws back a little way, hands out to draw Sherlock's off his own body. He stands firm, feet planted slightly apart and confidence in himself rising at Sherlock's unabashed appreciation. He reaches out, drawing Sherlock's shirt free and unfastening the last few buttons to bare the man's entire torso. "Yeah, but I'm going to look at you first," he says and flips open the belt buckle with a flourish. He draws the belt through the loops of Sherlock's trousers and snaps it once, just enough to catch the flash of darkness in the detective's eyes and John's grin widens.

The belt discarded, John turns his attention to the black trousers and unfastens them diligently, drawing them down to Sherlock's hips as the man bucks slightly. He's stripped women down before, but they've swiveled and wriggled and never quite let him take his own time. Sherlock doesn't stop watching him, but his arms rest at his side, currently content for John to take his fill. He might lean in slightly when John draws down his shorts, but it seems that Sherlock is just as much a show off here as everywhere else.

John takes a good look before he tilts his chin back up to Sherlock's own. "Well," he says as tries to bite down on a giggle. "That's one mystery resolved."

"I think you were fairly confident what I kept in my pants before you looked," says Sherlock reasonably. "It was always likely to be a penis."

That does it.

John giggles loudly and leans up, pressing his mouth against Sherlock's to take a kiss, his first of the evening. "Likely?" he asks and Sherlock's rumbling laughter echoes his own. There is another kiss, but not quite as passionate as the night before as they both attempt to get back in control again.

"Well, you are a doctor," says Sherlock and they are lost.

John's half slumped against Sherlock and the taller man's hands are currently stroking over his bare back, patting absently as John buries his face against Sherlock's chest and giggles hard enough to struggle to catch his breath.

"Oh God," he manages as he leans back up again. "This isn't quite the seduction I was planning."

"To be fair it sort of is what I expected," says Sherlock and John has to press his fingers against those cupid bow lips.

"Now, now," he says and as another giggle sneaks out he takes a deep breath and grasps Sherlock's hand. "Look, one way or another one of us is getting a blow job here. So just sit down on the sofa and let me try and get my dignity back."

"I think your dignity's just fine," says Sherlock but he catches hold of his trousers and shorts before they can fall down and hobble him. "A blow job? That's what you had in mind with all this nudity?"

"It's a start," says John and with a gentle push, gets Sherlock slumped on the sofa, his shirt open and his trousers tugged down round his ankles. He reaches to unfasten shoes and tosses all the extra bits of fabric away, certain that if he can get his head back in the game, he can make Sherlock feel the same way he did earlier this afternoon. Maybe better, if he tries hard enough.

He leans up on his knees, his toes digging in against the rug as he settles his hands on Sherlock's thighs. John kisses Sherlock's mouth and lingers, sucking at his tongue and relishing the difference in the naked body beneath his own. There aren't any curves to negotiate and he finds that it's pretty damned hot to feel Sherlock throb every time he sucks at the man's tongue.

It's intriguing and he slips away, his lips pressing against Sherlock's throat again before he works his way down over the tense belly of his flatmate. "I want this," he says quietly and feels Sherlock's hand against the back of his neck. The touch of his thumb sends shivers down John's spine and he glances up. The sight of Sherlock's upper lip caught by bottom teeth is enough to make his own cock throb and one way or another, he is going to bring Sherlock to his knees tonight.

John presses his mouth against Sherlock's belly, a kiss, soft and warm as his thumbs work over the bony hips before him. The balls of his thumbs are rough and he takes the groan as encouragement. He might not have delivered a blow job before but he's spent enough time getting them and he knows what works. With the weight of that knowledge in mind, he draws his hand up, encircling the stiff length and squeezing slowly. He draws his hand up and back down again steadily. This is not about doing this fast and there's nothing efficient in his exploration, but John has another man's cock in his hand and he doesn't want to rush this pleasure.

He's distracted when Sherlock drops his head against the back of the sofa and John notices that the hand at the base of his neck has tightened. The other clutches a cushion and with an experimental lick, John leans in to taste the liquid that's leaking slowly from the tip of Sherlock's cock. The skin there is soft, velvety and John does it again, waiting to see if he's about to panic and finding to his relief that everything right now is just fine.

For him, anyway, because Sherlock groans louder and the explicit _please_ is liquid enough to run through John's own body. He licks again and is almost amused to realise that each lick makes his cock throb in response. The images are no longer just in his head and he swirls his tongue round Sherlock's cock, relishing the sudden buck of the man's hips that he restricts with his free hand. "Stay put," he says and licks again, tonguing over the slit at the tip as he explores the taste. Salty and warm and not unfamiliar in the slightest.

And just as John's thinking he can definitely do this, Sherlock tugs against the back of his head and John looks up. "I said please," says Sherlock and stares at him, his tongue pushed against the back of his upper teeth and his eyes glazed with want.

"Twice," murmurs John and delves in. His lips slide over the tip of Sherlock's cock, enveloping the soft and slick skin as his hand keeps a firm grip on the shaft. Each journey up the shaft meets wet lips on the way down and John feels fully in control for the first time all week. Strange that it should take getting on his knees to do it, but sucking Sherlock's cock has given him a dizzying high and he picks up the pace, determined to make the man call his name.

He reaches up, his hand no longer pinning Sherlock's hips to the sofa, but rubbing at the man's mouth instead. Sherlock sucks greedily, his tongue working over John's fingertips in an imitation of the suction round his cock. It's a maddening pace that's making them both tremble, but John can recognise the closeness and he growls, the reverberations traveling through his lips and over the swollen head of Sherlock's cock. His own fingers are sucked harder and he draws them free with a pop as Sherlock cries out, John's full name called loudly in dulcet tones as his mouth is filled with spurts of silky semen.

He swallows, using his tongue carefully to ensure he has that taste memorised and John is thoroughly pleased with himself tonight. He sits back slowly, fingers drawn over Sherlock's thighs until he's resting back on his heels again. The look on Sherlock's face, slightly vulnerable and without the slightest hint of irony, is one John's sure he will treasure. He'll try and recall it in some of Sherlock's acidic moments to lessen the blow. Right now he's aware that he caused it _and_ he made the man beg twice.

He slides back up and onto his feet again, his cock still hard and pulsing against his belly. "Right then," he says and grins at Sherlock. "I'll just head off to bed then."

"Hmm?" asks Sherlock and seems to settle his brain back in his head. "You're leaving?"

"Fair's fair," says John and nods toward him. "The case is over. I'm knackered and I need to sleep."

"Seriously?" asks Sherlock as he gets to his feet and pushes his shirt off. "You're calling it a night?"

"Yeah," grins John and steps back, admiring the body before him. "Unless you've got-"

Sherlock steps forward quickly and grabs John by the shoulders. He leans in and kisses him hard, interrupting whatever John was about to say.

"I've got," he says firmly as he pulls away with a smacking sound. "My bedroom, John Watson. That _is_ an order."

John laughs and shakes his head. He reaches out to grasp Sherlock's hand and tugs him toward the stairs. "Not a soldier anymore," he points out. "My room."

Sherlock stares at him for a few seconds before he nods his head slowly. "You've been thinking about this."

"Of course," says John and steps back, pleased when Sherlock follows. "You're not the only one who uses his brain, you know?"

"Evidently," says Sherlock and pauses at the bottom of the stairs. "What have you been using yours for?"

"Working out how to fuck you," says John and draws him in close enough to kiss. "Wouldn't want you to be bored, after all."

"With you?" Sherlock grins back. "Not possible, I assure you."

"Good," says John. "Get in my bed."

And with that, Sherlock mounts the stairs to John's bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's one more in this. The boys at least need to spend some time in the bedroom. Thank you again for all your kind comments and kudos. It's lovely, really lovely and I hope you're still enjoying this.


	6. Day Eight: Bed Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's finally got Sherlock in his bedroom. Shenanigans, sexual and otherwise, ensue.
> 
> With much nudity, groping and at least one bottle of Very Cherry.
> 
> ~

John is inordinately pleased with himself when they walk through his bedroom door. The room is clean and tidy and the sheets are stretched out tight across the mattress. He flips on the light switch and, thus illuminated, turns back to his flatmate and holds his hand out.

"Come in," he says and Sherlock breaches the threshold, stepping inside and scrunching his long toes against the carpet. He looks round slowly and John realises that Sherlock's never been inside here, respecting this barrier at least. It's one of the very few areas of the flat that is John's alone and he's kept it that way. However, since they're currently both naked and have spent at least part of the previous day making each other come, a trip round John's bedroom is overdue.

John slides his hand over Sherlock's own and brings him over to the bed. He sits down on the edge, Sherlock standing in front of him and traces the long lines of his body, from the angular line of his collarbone over the smooth planes of his chest. John hesitates only as he touches Sherlock's belly and glances up to where he's being watched intently. "You're quiet."

"I'm concentrating," says Sherlock. "What you're doing is intriguing."

"Touching you?" asks John and slides his hands down lower, thumbs toying with Sherlock's hip bones. He leans in and presses his mouth against the faint dip between belly and hip, inhaling the scent before he licks at his skin. "I've thought about this."

"So it would seem," says Sherlock and reaches for both of John's hands to draw him upright again. "You said I could look at you."

"If you like," says John and stands to let Sherlock dip back and take his time. John's long been used to being looked over, be it medically or just because he was one of the boys, another soldier in a place without privacy. He's also spent enough time with lovers to appreciate that his body can be pleasing and he isn't about to get embarrassed by a new lover looking at him, no matter how intently Sherlock stares.

A slight frown-line folds against his forehead as Sherlock looks John over. John tilts his chin up, suspecting  that this information is being filed away for future reference elsewhere. No matter who else he's taken his clothes off for, there's a slightly worrying vulnerability this time. He assesses and immediately discards the concern that it's for a man. It's because it's for Sherlock, of that he's certain and he stands at ease, hands dangling by his sides as he's examined closely.

He thinks his broad shoulders are one of his best features, though he's aware that one sits a little lower where he tries to spare it some. It aches when the weather changes, though he ignores it as much as he can. His chest is broad too, still well defined if a little less in shape than it used to be. The worrying word cuddly has been used about his belly, but while it may not be completely flat, he's far from overweight. 

Sherlock reaches out to touch him and John catches his breath. "Your hands are cold."

"Stop complaining," says Sherlock and strokes over John's belly, touching the soft curls that ruffle down from his navel. The softness of the skin there is something John's long thought about tightening up and never quite managed. He knows thighs are in good shape not just from past exploits but from the amount of running they do now. He's got pleasing feet too, even if they are a little flat on the arch. All of him in good condition considering everything he's put his body through and John shifts slightly to tolerate Sherlock's thorough once over.

He doesn't tense up when he realises that Sherlock's making mental notes on the shape of his cock. It's possibly the one part of him that the man's had his hand wrapped round and he should already know a fair amount about. While John will admit freely that it's not the biggest one in the world, it's served him well and managed to avoid battle scars, if not the occasional malfunction. He keeps his pubic hair clean and tidy and if he could level any criticism against his own penis, it would be that it tends to twitch under observation, something that seems painfully obvious now as it near bounces in time to his breathing.

"Seen enough?"

"This side," says Sherlock and John giggles as Sherlock's fingers brush over his hip bones. "Ticklish?"

"In far too many places," says John and turns round, raising his arms up behind his head instinctively and fastening his hands behind his neck. "Surprised you haven't-" He catches his breath as Sherlock steps closer and feels the brush of the man's cock against his arse. "Okay, that's new. Are you planning to do something with that."

"Do shut up, John," says Sherlock and presses a kiss against the back of John's shoulder, just south of the scar there. His hand slides down John's spine and he spreads his fingers out over the curvature of a now rather tense left cheek. "You could have come downstairs before," he says. "I expected you last month but you stayed up here." His hand slips lower and John shifts his legs apart slightly, breath held as slender digits part his thighs. He's a little surprised to feel them brush the underside of his balls, but here he is in his own bedroom with Sherlock's hands on him and his half hard cock is growing increasingly interested. "Why didn't you come down?"

John clears his throat at the sensation and tries to find his brain again as the deft fingers massage the tender sac. "We're mates," he says and groans as Sherlock's fingers squeeze lightly. "You don't shag your best mate."

He swears he can feel Sherlock grin against his shoulder. "So we'll still be best mates after this?"

John turns then, pulling away from Sherlock's touch and banging the backs of his calves against the edge of the bed. "If we're not, I'm not doing it."

Sherlock stares back at him and nods. "You're my only friend," he says and smiles slowly, pleasure spreading slowly across his face to underline it. "I won't risk that."

"We're just like we were before," says John. "Work together, we cook together, piss each other off and this is just one more thing we do."

"If you like," says Sherlock. "If it helps, I've always regarded you as a potential lover."

"Really?" asks John and thinks back through the previous year. "Even before, um, you know?"

Sherlock frowns at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh that's a first," says John and steps closer. If he doesn't have to mention Ms Adler then he won't. He slides a hand to Sherlock's jaw and draws him down so that he can kiss that inviting mouth. Sherlock responds eagerly, lips parted to meet John's own and his tongue is as inquisitive as everything else about him. It's a kiss strong enough to take John's breath at a way and he leans in instinctively, his body pressed up against the long limbed detective who's been making him crazy for far too long.

John draws back to get a breath and feels Sherlock's arms still wrapped round him. His gaze is still steady and it occurs to John that he could do all sorts of things here. Their relationship's already permanently changed and he doesn't regret it, doesn't want to go back at all. If he can still run across rooftops with Sherlock and can still get into mischief then John's fine with that. Sherlock's mattered since the moment their hands touched over a phone. He was alone then and he's not now and Sherlock means everything to him, the rest of the world be damned.

This is just one more step in the quiet hours of the night and John is suddenly frustrated with having spent so long hanging back when he could have had this. He could have had all of this from the beginning, if he had just known, but John's confident that he wasn't ready then.

He is now.

He draws his hand down over Sherlock's lip and takes a quick breath. "Can I?" he asks and Sherlock nods.

"Whatever you want, John," he draws and John nods and pushes him back against the wall, reaching for Sherlock's wrists and dragging them up above his head. He steps in, forcing Sherlock to spread his thighs and bend his knees, neatly bringing him to John's level.

"I've thought about this," grins John and takes his kisses, his tongue sliding over Sherlock's bottom lip as he works to make the man as breathless as he feels. Sherlock kisses him back, his wrists twisting slightly in John's grip as he's pinned against the wall. John sucks at Sherlock's bottom lip and digs his teeth in, nipping at the flesh there before he draws back to look him in the eye. "I think I might be a little bit gay."

"The evidence does definitely point in that direction," says Sherlock. "How did you reach that conclusion?"

"Well," says John as he keeps Sherlock's wrists pinned. "There's the way I look at you," he says.

Sherlock shrugs. "Admiration," he says and bites his lip as he grins. "Circumstantial."

"Yeah," says John. "Okay, well I've started using product in my hair."

"Molly bought you it and you're kind enough to use things people give you." Sherlock shifts slightly, clearly enjoying himself. "What else?"

"Well," says John. "I've got new pants."

"The red ones?" asks Sherlock. "Gag gift. You don't always do your laundry when you should so sometimes you have to wear them." He tuts. "You're not proving your case, John."

"Hmm, all right," says John and slides his free hand down to firmly grasp Sherlock's cock and squeezes lightly. He leans in when the man groans and presses his mouth against Sherlock's ear. "How about, I think I might be a little bit gay because I really want to take you to bed and fuck you?"

Sherlock catches his breath and nods, cheek brushing against John's. "Keen observational skills, John. We'll make a detective of you yet."

"Is that a yes, please, John?"

"Absolutely," says Sherlock and whatever he was about to say is cut off when John kisses him again. He's still kissing him when he draws Sherlock over to the bed and presses him back against the sheets. The bounce of the springs is enough for Sherlock to lean up against the pillows and complain. "You need a firmer mattress, John. This one will kill your back."

"Fine," says John. "Can you not tell me off when I'm trying to seduce you?"

"I'm completely naked and in your bed," points out Sherlock. "Consider me seduced."

John chuckles and bends his head to kiss Sherlock's mouth before he starts his exploration of the man's body. He's seen it before, felt it before and his tongue still holds the memory of cock and come, both of which were pleasant and appealing changes to the rule. His lips press lightly over collarbone and pectoral and here at least is an area he's familiar with. He draws his teeth against Sherlock's nipple and feels the catch in the man's breath, the throb of cock against his belly.

John leans in closer to suckle, nuzzling at Sherlock's skin and feeling the sensitive nipple harden against his tongue. He thrills at the sensitivity of the man and uses his free hand to get a grip on that heavenly hard penis. Sherlock groans loudly and John squeezes again, his own cock feeling slightly neglected at the lack of touch. And as if understanding just that, he feels Sherlock's fingers wrap round, a heady remembrance of what happened in the kitchen.

"I want," says John and his understanding of what he wants is tangible. He's thought about what he would do if he ever got Sherlock up here and there's a bottle of something necessary in his top drawer. He scrambles for it, hitting the edge of the handle and yanking hard enough to send both drawer and contents all over the floor. "Fuck," he snaps and leans over the edge of the bed to search. Sherlock chuckles beneath him and he raises a warning hand. "Don't laugh, I've got a bottle of lubricant down here and I think it's rolled under the bed."

Sherlock sits up as John scrambles to the floor. To his credit he doesn't laugh too loudly when John kneels up, triumphantly clutching the bottle. He reaches for John's hand and draws him back to the mattress. He reaches for the bottle and examines it. "Very Cherry? What were you planning to do with this?"

"Oh shut up," says John and pushes Sherlock back against the bed. He takes the bottle of him and squirts a glob to his fingers and works down to the soft skin of Sherlock's perineum. Sherlock arches his back, his thighs dropping wider as he allows John to explore. And all the time there are kisses, heated and warm as John rubs his fingertips over the skin that seems all the more intoxicating to him. He finds the tender, puckered entrance and feels quite giddy at being able to touch this intimate part of his best mate. He sucks at Sherlock's tongue as he rolls his fingertip over the warm skin and slips forward, easing in with surprising ease, muscles contracting and squeezing him.

He pushes forward, seeking further entrance and feels his cock throb hard against Sherlock's hip. The man wriggles beneath John and he grins against his mouth, enjoying himself thoroughly as he finds that no matter what sex he's in bed with, John is a fucking magnificent lover. He works a second finger inside and Sherlock squirms but he tilts his hips up against him higher, urging him on and John slides over to Sherlock's ear. "One more?" he asks and Sherlock growls and grips his sides.

"Just fuck me, please," he says firmly and nips at John's neck hard enough to make him yelp. John leans up, his fingers slipping free of Sherlock long enough to look at how gloriously sprawled out his lover is. He grins, pleased with himself as he tears open the shiny little packet and slides it down the length of his cock before he leans forward. He braces a hand on the bed and although he wants to keep his eyes on Sherlock's, he really needs to look at what he's doing.

He slicks the outside of his cock with as much Very Cherry as he can stand and the scent is rather prominent in the now hot little room. With a push and a bit of tricky maneuvering he eases forward and inside the tight little entrance that slowly gives way to him. John closes his eyes, unable to do anything else when he feels Sherlock tense beneath him. This is tight, damned tight and he hasn't quite got that kind of control over himself when it's been a long time coming.

"Oh, that feels so good," drawls Sherlock and John blinks, helpfully reminded that he's not here on his own and he can't help but buck his hips at the tone of Sherlock's voice. He can feel Sherlock's thighs gripping his own and he leans forward, needing to kiss him while he shifts inside the tightness of the man. He can feel the hard length of Sherlock's cock sliding against his belly and John decides that all contact is good right now. A little overwhelming but incredible and he moves slowly, hips easing forward until the rhythm feels more natural.

Finally, John is seriously fucking Sherlock and he couldn't be happier. He's making the kinds of noises that he hasn't made in a very long time and he can feel the heat that's not just curling but rippling inside his belly. He can feel Sherlock throbbing against his skin and he struggles to get a hand between them and get ahold, but manage he does and as he finds his own climax he can at least draw Sherlock along close behind him. He can feel the slick spill against hand and belly as he collapses against Sherlock's skin and relishes the yell of his own name against his ear. He feels spent, deliciously hot and incapable of hiding the grin that's threatening to overwhelm him completely.

Sherlock moves beneath him and John makes the monumental effort to ease out and off so that he's lying on his back as he catches his breath. He reaches out, hand groping across the sheets before he can capture Sherlock's own and when the long fingers are entwined with his, John lifts them so he can kiss the back and hold Sherlock's hand to his cheek.

"That was amazing," he says, still struggling to regulate his breathing. "You're amazing."

"You think so," says Sherlock and John blinks and turns his head to look at him, echoes of the past rising up. He knows how the rest of this conversation went once and wants to make the change complete.

"You're the best man I know," he says and smiles evenly, his teeth revealed before he can find the energy to lean in and kiss Sherlock. "Thank God we did this."

"What's he got to do with it?" asks Sherlock, but he's grinning as he takes each kiss, his lips a little red and warming to John's touch. "Can I stay?"

"Oh God yes," says John and reaches for tissues, grabbing a handful to swipe over both of them and clean as much as he can. He's surprised when Sherlock moves to snuggle in, apparently just fine with spooning in the dim light of John's bedroom. John wraps round him, enjoying the way Sherlock curls up and he rests his chin against the side of Sherlock's neck. "Sleep with me every night, if you like."

"If?" asks Sherlock and grins lazily, stroking fingertips over John's wrists. "Only if you'll come down and sleep in mine. This is an appalling bed, John."

John lets him talk, listening vaguely to the complaints about bed and mattress, but not about John. He doesn't much care, given that his head finally feels clear and he thinks he can sleep through the entire night without losing his mind to anything more than the physical. He's happy, and that might be the very essence of anyone's identity, finding the one you're happiest with and Sherlock is definitely that. So he rests, sleeping soundly in bed as Sherlock's voice lulls him to sleep and his last conscious thought is this:

John Watson, doctor, soldier and madman is at least a bit gay.

And that maddeningly wonderful bit is entirely Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me and the boys through this. I've absolutely loved writing in and while this section is over, a friend or two have helpfully reminded me of a few things that warrant a sequel.
> 
> I'll get right on it.
> 
> Thank you all for the comments, kudos and giggles you've given me. I hope that this is what you're looking for. Cheers!


End file.
